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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24054955">Strawberry Wine</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaryOldman/pseuds/GaryOldman'>GaryOldman</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU, Human AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Second Person, Sad with a Happy Ending</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:54:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,379</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24054955</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaryOldman/pseuds/GaryOldman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Human AU Ineffable Husbands one shot. </p><p>"You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you." - Richard Siken</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>150</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Good Omens Human AUs</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Strawberry Wine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>"You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you." - Richard Siken</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’re born on the same day, the same hour, in the same wing of the hospital. Your first intake of breath is shared with his, and from the moment you find this out you can’t stop thinking about how your lungs have never tasted air that wasn’t tinged by him. </p><p>You’re six when you meet again, but he’s just another boy at school. You read alone at lunch and you read ahead in class - he does all the things your brothers tell you that you should do. He kicks the ball, he wrestles in the field. You notice that he comes in late sometimes; you notice that he walks himself home and makes his own lunches, but you don’t know what that means yet. </p><p>You’re seven when you try to run away. You’re in a new part of town, one that your brothers refer to as the bad part, and he’s sitting on the curb. You sit with him and talk. It’s the most important moment of your life and you have no idea. You go home that night and lie about where you’ve been. You see him the next day and nothing has changed, but when you run away next week he’s waiting for you. </p><p>You’re eleven and have opted for the local comprehensive over the private school your brothers attend. You sit together in tutor group and in science. You share a counter in cooking class, and sit alone but together at lunch. He lets you read and you let him draw you in his Maths book. It’s the first time you’ve been properly happy, but of course you never say anything.</p><p>You’re fifteen and you’ve realised you’re different to how the world wants you to be, and not just because your brothers tell you so. Most boys look at their best friend and see their best friend. You look at yours and see the world. </p><p>You’re fifteen and sitting in his bedroom. No one else is home and you’re making plans for the future. You’ve been doing this since the first day, sitting on the curb. You both long for the world outside of this town. He suggests that you move to London or New York or Barcelona and you agree to follow him anywhere. He’s stopped drawing in his Maths book, stopped sharing his sketches but you know there are still sketchbooks on the shelf and art inside him. It breaks your heart to see the effect the world has had on him. </p><p>You’re sixteen when you get drunk for the first time on Echo Falls strawberry wine he managed to get from one of his college friends. You don’t like his college friends, but you’re glad he’s drinking with you and not with them. The drink is sweet like nectar and you proclaim you could get used to this. You’re staring at him and part of you knows you should stop. He’s staring at you and part of you dares to pray it might mean something. When he kisses you, you can feel the grace of god in your ears and taste strawberry wine on his lips. </p><p>You’re sixteen and he hasn’t mentioned anything about the other night. The empty bottle is still under his bed and when you close your eyes at night you can still picture his lips around it. </p><p>You’re sixteen and stuffed into his desk chair. There’s another bottle of wine being passed between you, and a pack of cigarettes he keeps to himself. You wish he wouldn’t smoke but you don’t say anything. At the bottom of the bottle he invites you to lie beside him on the floor and kisses you again. This time you’re not surprised when he doesn’t mention it the next day. </p><p>You’re seventeen and this has been going on for months. You know the feeling of his lips, his skin, his touch as intimately as you know your own but he’s never said a word about it. He’s skipping college to smoke with his new friends and he’s talking less and less. During the week you feel eight again, pretending to be strangers but come the weekend he wraps himself up in you and begs you not to leave. </p><p>You’re eighteen and don’t know what to do. It’s the evening of your birthday and he climbs the tree up to your window. Something feels wrong. It’s not the first time he’s been here but it’s the first time in a while you haven’t had strawberry wine passing between you, and there’s something in his eyes. He asks you if you’re okay and you lie. He asks you if he can stay and you falter. </p><p>You’re eighteen and a day when he leaves. You don’t remember how you found out, only that you did, and by then it was too late. You jump when you see dark silhouettes in the street, you dream about him at your window, you haunt your room on Saturday nights thinking about him off in London or New York or Barcelona. </p><p>You’re twenty-three when you see him again. He walks into your bookshop and you don’t notice him. You’re fussing in the back and it’s been long enough that you’ve stopped looking for him in the face of every stranger. But there he is and he looks so very different. You haven’t changed a bit and you suddenly feel ridiculous in your own skin. He looks tired; wary. You close the shop and invite him for tea. </p><p>You’re twenty-three but you feel ancient when you pull out the bottle of strawberry wine and offer him a glass. You don’t say that you’ve been keeping it for him but he must surely know. You don’t say a lot of things that you think he must know. He tells you of his adventures, and the places he’s seen and you wonder what it would be like to have gone with him. </p><p>You’re twenty-three when you spend your first night together but you can’t sleep. You long to go out into the living room and sit beside him, touch him, kiss him like you used to. But you’re twenty-three and things aren’t like they used to be. </p><p>You’re twenty-three and you’re not surprised that he’s gone come morning. </p><p>You’re twenty-six and the last few years have flown by. He shows up at your door with a new haircut and a bottle of wine. You’re so happy to see him you don’t let yourself think about tomorrow. </p><p>You’re twenty-six and it’s been three months since he showed up last. You’re not expecting a knock at the door for years, but you hear it and there he is. He’s got a black eye and a bust lip but a smile that stops the world turning. </p><p>You’re twenty-seven today and he’s still here. It’s been weeks since he showed up black and blue and he still hasn’t told you why, but he hasn’t gone. He’s living on your couch and spending his days tucked into your window seat drawing on every scrap of paper he can find. You find a sketchbook at the market and leave it on the table for him - a birthday present. He fills it with sketches of you working, reading, laughing. </p><p>You’re twenty-seven today and drinking wine after dinner. He’s twenty-seven today too and you want to say something - something about the kisses or the way he disappeared nine years ago today or how you define yourself by your orbit to him but you don’t. You go to bed tipsy, alone with it on your lips. You’re still awake at midnight when he comes to your door. </p><p>You’re twenty-seven and he’s kissing you again and a lifetime of heartache begins to heal. You’re twenty-seven and it’s been nine years since you’ve had him like this and you’re hungry for it; needy. You sink into each other and even though you know he won’t talk about it come tomorrow you whisper every unsaid thing into the crook of his neck, the curve of his lips. You pray to God with blasphemous adoration, begging her to keep him by your side. </p><p>You’re twenty-seven and scared to wake up. You’re scrambling for sleep to drag you back down but it doesn’t happen. Consciousness returns and you’re terrified. You open an eye and he’s there, sprawled out pale and luscious against your sheets. You fetch two cups of tea and kiss him for the first time under the light of the sun. You get two more weeks of this before he’s gone again. </p><p>You’re thirty-nine and nothing has changed. You live in the town you were born in, you read alone, eat alone, sleep alone. You’re in love with a beautiful boy but it’s been more than a decade since you saw him last. You’re happy for the most part but you dream about him sometimes. You wonder where he is, you wonder if he’s seen everything he wanted to see. </p><p>You’re forty when you get the package. There’s no note but it doesn’t need it. There’s no return address either. It’s the sketchbook you gave him years ago and now it’s yours. Versions of you litter the whole book. You at twenty-seven reading in tartan pyjamas, you at sixteen sipping wine from the bottle, you at fourteen in your tie and blazer reading against that old school tree. You look back at the young man on the pages and your heart shatters. </p><p>You’re forty-nine and you’ve given up hope of seeing him again. You go about your day as you did the day before. You’ve stopped dreaming about him. You calculate how much longer he’s been gone than the time you had together and you lock the sketchbook away. You tie yourself in knots trying to unravel yourself from him. </p><p>You’re forty-nine and you’re tired. You’ve been tired for a while. You’ve not taken a holiday in twenty years and it’s catching up to you. You sit in the travel section of your shop wondering how much of the world you haven’t seen. You’re not scared to go - you’re scared to not be here if he came back, but you’re getting more scared of sitting by the door waiting for another ten years. You read all the books in the travel section and it doesn’t make the thought of leaving any easier. </p><p>You’re fifty and you’ve bought a cottage in the South Downs. You close up the bookshop and you leave the town you were born. It’s not quite overnight but you’re gone before you can second-guess yourself. The cottage has lots of room for books, splendid lighting and a vast garden. You know you won’t tend to it much, but it’s nice to have the space. You spend your days reading alone, eating alone, sleeping alone but you’re no longer waiting for the door. You’re unpacking the last box when you find the sketchbook. You flick through and land on a sketch of you at twenty-seven - you’re reading, you’re young and beautiful and you’re with him. You frame the picture and hide it in your office. </p><p>You’re fifty and settled into the village. Each morning you head to the café for tea and cake. After that you go by the newsagents and pick up a paper. Then you go home, sit by the window to read and watch the birds. It’s a midnight in October when you hear the bell. You throw on your slippers and dressing gown and shuffle towards the door. It doesn’t cross your mind that it could be him, and when you open the door and see that it is, you sob. </p><p>You’re fifty and so is he and you’re in pieces in his arms. You scream at him for coming here but the anger isn’t there and you sound like a beggar. He holds you, safe and warm and you love him so much but you can’t do this anymore. You’re fifty but you’re also sixteen and desperately longing for the taste of strawberry wine. He soothes you, calms you, and settles you in bed. When you wake the early morning sun is creeping in and he’s sleeping in the chair in the corner. You fall back to sleep and when you wake later the chair is empty. You find him alongside your faith waiting in the kitchen. </p><p>You’re fifty and it’s been twenty-three years since you were together but a day hasn’t passed. He has lines around his eyes, a white hair or two, but he’s still seven years old sat cold and lonely on the curb in the bad part of town. He sees you and he smiles and you resolve that running away can wait until next week. You think about the times you’ve woken up alone, the times that he came back just to leave again. You could ask him to leave, to never come back and to give you some peace - you’re sure he would honour your wishes - but you don’t. You muster your faith from the kitchen floor, you think about the times he was there, you think about the sketchbook, and you think about the taste of strawberry wine. </p><p>You’re fifty and you’re taking his hand into your own and leading him into your garden. You haven’t touched it since moving in and it’s a mess. You give him the tour, you make plans and suggestions. You go back into the house, you show him the living room, the space in your office that would be perfect for painting. You show him the bathrooms and the spare room and your room so empty and full of space. You’re waiting for him to say something but he falters. </p><p>You’re fifty. You’re done with waiting for him to leave, done with waiting for him to kiss you. You feel your ghosts, eight and fourteen and sixteen and twenty-seven and forty-one willing you on, and you kiss him. You draw him close to you, you ask him not to leave, beg him to stay. You kiss him and you’re eighteen again, in love with a beautiful boy. He kisses you back and promises to stay. </p><p>You’re fifty-six and sat in the garden. He’s sat beside you. You kiss him and he tastes like strawberry wine.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So my last fic was like 99% dialogue, light hearted and fun... this is probably the exact opposite of that, but here we are! </p><p>I really hope you enjoyed this one. It's really sad and I literally made myself cry writing this so soz but happy endings (I refuse to write anything but happy endings my dudes, please be assured). This is also my first time writing a one-shot but I had the idea and didn't want it to be too long so w/e. Let me know what you thought - this fandom is so crazy supportive and I love you all. </p><p>More works will be coming, hopefully a bit more lighthearted than this badboy. I hope you're well and happy and safe! </p><p>&lt;3 :) x</p></blockquote></div></div>
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